Hushed Willows I was angry with my friend

The noise— the sound of snow being pulled away from the crevice— so close to him, was faint in Kavos' ears. And the light, once it struck him, almost didn't register to his eyes as brilliant and brightening air. What he felt most aware of was the wind; the stab of cold oxygen that raked along his body and bit into his wet nose like a wasp-sting repeating each time he took a breath. His thinned body heaved, trying to adjust to the fresh sensations, not quite aware of how much pain he was truly in. His nerves shot by both the cold and by his (so far) depraved upbringing.

He was too weak to pick his head up from between his paws, but he was able to slide his skull instead, pulling it over his arm so that he could look into the source of this change. Kavos wouldn't know it, but one of his eyes had begun to transition into gold.

There was a pit of black, haloed by sunlight and proverbial rainbows... Death. He didn't know anything about dying, not the concept of it or even the general semantics of how prey met its end, but he felt the sensation of knowing Death as surely as he felt his normal indifference and the brief stints of happiness he'd experienced with Tambourine and Banner. The boy swallowed, making slow, shallow breaths, not making a sound as he waited bravely for the beautiful shadow to envelop him.